


against all odds

by endlessnorth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hunger Games, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24255988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlessnorth/pseuds/endlessnorth
Summary: Arya Stark is not the first girl to volunteer as tribute. Gendry Waters is not the first boy to be reaped, unwillingly, from the thousands of others in District Twelve. Their stories have been played out many times before, and with the arena looming on the horizon, their only concern is to make it past tomorrow.Welcome to the 64th annual Hunger Games.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 89
Kudos: 135





	1. one.

Arya stands in front of the mirror and tucks her shirt in for the third time that afternoon.

“You should wear a dress,” Sansa tells her. Her sister perches on the edge of the worn-out mattress, running a comb through her freshly-washed hair as she wrings it gently with a towel. “Mom’s blue one, maybe, or my old one with the flowers - I think you’d look pretty in it.”

From across the tiny, dirty bedroom, Catelyn gives Sansa a sharp glance, but Arya just ignores her. “And trip on my own feet halfway to the stage?” She readjusts the hem of her trousers. "I don't think so.” She glances over at Sansa, the girls sharing small frail smiles. On some other day, they might have argued - but today is Reaping Day, and on Reaping Days, the world just seems to change.

Rickon comes out of the bathroom soaking wet, tugging an undershirt over his head. Their mother looks up, her fingers stilling over Bran’s rumpled lapel.

“Jon, Arya, could you help your brother dress?"

“Sure, Mom,” Arya says, glancing out the window. She catches sight of some kids walking in the street - already dressed with their hair combed neatly down, heading towards the City Center - and she turns away, swallowing. Jon starts towards the bed but Arya waves him off. “No, I'll do it. C’mere, Rickon.”

He scowls at her. “I can do it myself.”

"Rick," Jon reprimands.

_"What?"_

“I said, _come here_ ,” Arya repeats, and she ignores the fading vitriol on her little brother’s face, chalking it up to the due stress of his first Reaping. She picks up Rick’s nice clothes, running her hands along the starched collar. The blue shirt is too large in the shoulders; six years ago, it had been Robb’s.

She shifts infinitesimally, making sure her mother is still busy with Bran’s coat and whispers: "You know you have nothing to worry about, right? Your name's only in there once, Rickon. _Once._ It's your first year," She places her hand on his shoulder. "They never pick the first-years." 

"Never?" He's twelve, only twelve, but already he knows to be quiet and afraid, his spine hunched from working days at the slag heap and the District's aching lack of hope. 

_"Never_ ," She swears to him. "You know how it works, right? The older you get, the more times your name is in the pot. Once this year, twice next year-"

"Three times _next_ , next year," Rickon finishes, and she grins. 

"Right." 

"Okay. Okay, Arya." He fidgets slightly. "What about you?"

"Hm?" She murmurs. 

"What about you?" Rickon asks again - slowly like he's afraid of hearing the answer. "And Bran? And Sansa? How many times are your names in there?"

Her smile feels as brittle as the collar of Rickon's shirt. She knows the answer: Twelve times for Bran, fourteen for her, a staggering sixteen for Sansa. It'd been sixteen, too, the year of Robb's Games. Maybe it wasn't enough. Gods knew they needed the tesserae. But Catelyn had been determined, this year, to stack the odds in her children's favor as much as it was possible. 

It's strange, then, that the situation still feels so hopeless. 

_Seven more years of this,_ Arya reminds herself. Seven more years of living in fear on one day out of hundreds, and then they can scrape by for as long as they need to, on the things they earn and sell. They won't be rich, maybe, but they'll be together. And without the shadow of the Games looming over them, maybe life won't feel so empty.

She leans forward and presses her lips to Rickon's forehead. "Not enough for it to matter."

"It's almost time to go," Catelyn tells them. Arya looks over. Her mother's face is calm and composed as she sits but her eyes seem to flare with worry. “Jon and I will be there with you in the square, but we can't see you again until...until after. So you have to stay together for as long as you can, and Sansa, Arya, look after your little brothers. Do you understand me?"

They nod. It's the only thing they can do. 

"I won't say goodbye," Their mother says stiffly. "Today isn't a day for goodbyes. I learned that from your father. I learned it from Robb. But I love all of you. So much. And..." Her voice trembles, almost breaking. "And I'll look for you in the crowd when it's over." 

Bran reaches over, curling his arms around her neck, and Catelyn clings to him, fiercely. It's only another moment before Sansa joins him, Rickon crawling onto her lap, Arya hugging all of them with desperation. She won't say goodbye, either, but Sansa's tears are on her neck, Jon is fumbling for her hand, and the fear is a familiar, heavy knot in Arya's stomach. 

-

She holds Sansa's hand during the walk to the main square, her arm tight around Rickon's shoulder. Bran walks with their mother, and Jon, as usual, stays with Arya. _Don't worry,_ he mouths to her, and her smile is weak, but it's there. 

_Don't worry,_ she thinks. But the thing is, Jon really doesn't have to. He aged out of the system three years ago, so he's in no true danger from the Reaping. Arya wonders if there's some kind of relief in knowing that he's safe, or if it makes it a hundred times more terrible to watch his loved ones enter their names while he's forced to stand aside. It's not as though he can gather tesserae anymore, so until Rickon turns nineteen it's something of an endless waiting game.

But Arya steels herself. _Be brave,_ she whispers silently, _be brave_ _like Robb, and Father, and Aunt Lyanna._ She squeezes Rickon's shoulder, tangling her fingers even closer to Sansa's. 

They reach the main square, where all the eligible youths of District Twelve line up in front of the City Center, forming a sea of muted blacks and greys. Arya remembers being younger and watching the Reapings in the wealthier Districts - remembers at being awed at the gaudy colors, the stained-glass buildings, the _richness_ of it all. There's nothing like that here - they're all in their Sunday best but it still seems that despite their best efforts to dress up, their District remains positively drab; covered in that layer of dust and grime that is perpetual in the Seam. 

Ahead of them is the Capitol's makeshift platform. Mayor Baratheon is up there, along with a few people from the Capitol and some peacekeepers wielding guns. A wide projection screen has been set up behind them, waving flimsily in the wind. The Capitol's technology is far more advanced than the setup would suggest, but all Reapings are like this, as far as she can tell. A hovercraft projects the Targaryen emblem some thirty feet in the air - a golden three-headed dragon, accompanied by the traditional gold eagle of Panem. 

And, resting on pedestals like trophies, are two great glass globes, filled to the brim with thousands of paper envelopes. 

Thirteen of those envelopes contain her brothers' names. 

Thirty of them, her and Sansa's. 

Catelyn hugs all of them one last time. Then she and Jon cross the partition between eligible and not, joining the families on the other side. Rickon tries to follow her, but Arya shakes her head. "No goodbyes, remember?" 

"Come on, Rick," Bran says. It's his third Reaping this year. There's fear on his face, but self-assuredness too. "I'll get you there." Before Rickon can say another word Bran's leading him towards the table with the peacekeepers. "It's easy," Arya can hear him say as the boys walk farther away. "You just have to do what I do."

She glances at Sansa, who nods, her blue eyes half-closed and watery.

"You must be happy," Arya mutters as they line up to prick their fingers. There are a few other girls their age there, but for the most part, it's only younger kids who are just arriving, minutes before the ceremony begins. It’s not something that’s encouraged, but for the most part, everybody understands. It's a way of pretending like today isn’t real; prolonging the inevitable for a few moments more. "It's your last Reaping," she clarifies when Sansa glances at her in confusion. "I can't imagine that doesn't feel good." 

"Oh." Sansa looks down, playing with the hem of her dress. "Well. I mean. You can't be sure until it's over, right?"

The female peacekeeper waves them forward. They move quickly to the table. Arya extends her pointer finger, barely flinching when the needle pricks her skin. Sansa doesn’t even react - this is her seventh reaping, and by now it’s just procedure as she smears her blood across the paper. 

"Eighteens over there, please," The woman instructs them calmly. Sansa gives her a guilty look before folding her hands behind her back, joining Jeyne Poole with the oldest girls. Arya sidles in at the edge of the crowd, next to a girl with dark eyes and hair that seems to explode with wild curls.

She gives Arya a friendly smile, even though they're strangers. "Two more to go," She whispers, and it makes Arya roll her eyes good-naturedly.

The girl's name is Meera, she remembers suddenly. Meera Reed. Her father had been a friend of Arya’s dad, and her little brother, Jojen, is in the same grade level as Bran. "It's good to know you're counting,” She replies. 

Meera giggles again, and Arya wonders if she's drunk. She certainly wouldn't be the first. "Well, someone has to. How else would we-"

The crowd falls silent as the District Escort - Janos Slynt - walks out onto the platform, shielding his eyes from the sun. He’s been Twelve’s Escort for the last few years, and since then his crass and overzealous nature has won him little affection from the people - like most of the Capitol, he seems to treat the Games as something entertaining - like it’s all one big joke on the Districts. Arya scowls at him, remembering the time he’d shown up drunk to the Reaping two years ago, and she hears Meera scoff beside her. One of the city officials hands him a microphone, and feedback squeals across the City Center, low and piercing. 

Slynt winces, waves the mic around for a moment, and brings it back up to his mouth. "Good morning, District 12," he greets. When there's no reply he clears his throat. "How about we get this show on the road?"

As if on cue, the video starts playing, the same video they play every year about bombs and warfare and death; flashing images of past Games and blood staining the hands of a boy not much older than Rickon. By the time the last strains of the anthem fade, she's given up looking for her mother, although she finds Bran's solemn face peeking out at her from the crowd. _It's almost over,_ she thinks. It’s almost over. She'll go home tonight and have dinner with her mother; she'll prepare the herbs for the apothecary and follow Sansa to bed, both of them falling asleep to the sound of wind and crickets. 

But not yet. Not quite yet. There are moments more to go. 

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Slynt says, his hips moving as he swaggers over to the Reaping bowl. “You all know how this works, right?” He's never been one for long speeches, which somehow makes the moment worse. Arya hears a sharp intake of breath from those around her, and her own knuckles fist so tightly they go white. Slynt glances up again as if to make sure they’re still listening. “Ladies first, okay?” 

"Please, please," she hears someone mutter. The sentiment echoes around the square, even if none of them are saying it: _Please, please, not me, not her, not my sister, my girlfriend, my daughter._ Slynt answers them with a hand fished into the depths of the Reaping bowl. He plucks an envelope from the bottom of the glass and quickly opens it up, holding it between two fingers. 

_Don't let it be me,_ she begs. There's a high pitched-noise filling her ears, the threat of blackout in her vision. _Please,_ she thinks, her whole body seizing up with terror. _Please not me, please not me, please not me._

And it's not. 

"Our female tribute from District Twelve," Slynt announces almost eagerly, "Sansa Stark." 

-

It feels like all the air is sucked out from Arya's lungs, like someone's peeling back her skin, ripping out her lungs, prying her bones apart one by one as sound escapes into some nameless vacuum. Arya doesn't realize she's collapsed until Meera pulls her back to her feet, and then she sees Robb's name being called, Robb walking up to the platform in silence, her father clawing his way towards him and dying with a peacekeeper's bullet lodged between his ribs; boom, boom, boom, each image flashing by her in garish, unforgiving technicolor.

And Sansa. The crowd parts like waves for Sansa, dispersing as it breaks slowly to the left. She remembers endless fights and cruel nicknames, but she also remembers knitting scarves in the dead of winter, a high clear voice weaving through the walls, long nights spent curled around each other in the darkness of their home.

All she can think is _not again_.

Sansa takes one step forward on shaky thin legs, and Arya shoves her way through the crowd until she's at the foot of the stage.

"I volunteer," She gasps out. She doesn't fully realize what she's done, the events she's set in motion. "I volunteer as tribute."

"No." Sansa grabs her arm, her nails digging spades into her skin. "No," She whispers. "No, no, Arya, _no,_ please." Her voice rises in pitch, crescendos, “No, _stop, PLEASE!_ " and suddenly it sounds like Sansa's the one who's being gutted.

The crowd surges around her in confusion, and she hears Rickon bawling, her mother crying. Jon is screaming her name. Arya tries to find him, but a peacekeeper has a hold on her and drags her to the stage in a way that is not rough but _disinterested,_ like she isn't even human, like she is cattle. 

Fear settles in her stomach. The reality of what she's done sets in as soon as she reaches the stage. She's been in that crowd so many times, looking at two people who will never come back home again. She's one of them now, and Arya knows that she doesn't stand a chance.

Rickon breaks through the others, running towards the stage before one of the peacekeepers grabs him around the middle and forces him into line. Jon fights at the edge to get to her, his features contorted in pain. Catelyn buries her face into her hands, Sansa clinging tightly to Jeyne as her jaw goes eerily slack. Slynt is closest to her. Arya has to turn every which way before she's able to find him. 

His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.

She shakes her head, disoriented. 

“I said what’s your name, kid?" Slynt asks her. 

"Arya," Arya says. She swallows, tries not to look at Sansa. "My name is Arya Stark." She wrenches herself away from the peacekeeper, fear crawling up her arm like spiders. Her mouth is impossibly dry, but the world is slowly fading in. Terror is beating along with her pulse, but it’s changing, burning out and becoming something small and cold.

"Wow. _Wow_. You're District Twelve's very first volunteer, Arya. That's something, you're - you're really something, kiddo. But why’d you do it?” Slynt questions. “Who’s Sansa Stark to you?”

"She’s my sister,” Arya chokes out. And Robb's. Robb's, too, although Slynt’s face doesn't show any sign of recognition. The District, though - surely the District must remember? Surely that is why they wait with bated breath? She does see it some of their eyes - a flicker of recognition, the occasional dismissal. The acknowledgment itself is telling.

They remember her brother, Robb Stark. They remember the Young Wolf. 

"You must love her very much to take her place,” Janos comments offhandedly.

“Yeah,” Arya croaks, “yeah, I do.” 

“That, or you don’t want her to have all the glory.” He says it like it's the punchline to a joke. Arya’s stomach turns. She’s probably going to be sick, with the way everyone is watching her, the way Janos Slynt is smiling, like a snake looking at its prey. "And how old are you, Arya?"

"Sixteen," She answers softly.

“Arya Stark, everybody. Sixteen years old, volunteered for her sister...let’s give her a bit of encouragement, how about it?"

There's a smattering of applause here and there - mostly from the peacekeepers and the Capitol authorities. Then, to her relief, Slynt moves onto the second glass bowl, the one with the thousands of other names. “We’re not done yet,” he reminds the audience playfully.

Arya gulps, trembling. She prays it isn't Rickon or Bran. She thinks her mother's heart will break if it's one of them. 

He slips his hand in again, this time choosing from the very top of the Reaping bowl, narrowing his eyes at it as he reads. "And our male tribute from District 12...Gendry Waters." 

The whispers start again as the boy emerges from the left side of the crowd, separating himself from the rest of the eligible males. Arya feels cold watching him walk up to the platform, seeing the anger so raw on his face, drawn tight in the muscles of his shoulders. He doesn't hide his emotions and he doesn’t look around, not at anybody, not for family or friends. His face is strangely familiar, even though she doesn’t know him and his eyes - his eyes are the angriest part of him, so dark blue they're nearly onyx, and his hands, covered in the soot and dust that is common for those in the Seam, flex furiously at his side.

Where Arya intervened for Sansa, not a soul stirs for Gendry Waters.

And she can't help but feel sorry for him, even though this is the way it usually goes.

He glances at Arya as he walks up to the stage, his blue eyes fixating onto hers. She tries desperately not to cry - because Arya had made her choice when Gendry hadn't even had one, and two volunteers in one Reaping would be unspeakable for a place like District Twelve. 

"Hello, hello,” Slynt says, but Gendry doesn't even look at him. He shakes his head a little bit, disgust rampant in his features. Arya looks at the strong line of his shoulders, the defiant lift of his chin, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, they have a winner on their hands.

"Well then," Slynt wheels around to face the crowd, the image of unaffected poise. "Ladies and gentlemen, your District tributes - Arya Stark and Gendry Waters. We'll have one more round of applause for them, please." 

Somewhere in the Capitol, they are watching her. Somewhere in the Capitol, they are laughing. 

But here in District Twelve, they are silent - like their whole district, these people who they've known for all their lives, are already in mourning.

And she can't breathe. She can't _breathe._ The peacekeeper to her left grabs her arm. Gendry turns with her, and they're heading towards the door behind them, the one she's seen tributes go into and never come out of, ever. Gendry says something, some kind of muffled protest, but then he's being pulled too, towards the door, and it's opening, it's shutting, a lock clicks softly behind them. She's only aware of the tepid air on her skin; the tiles hard underneath her feet, Gendry slamming his fist against the door. 

"They can't do this," he says, his voice low and angry. "They can't just lock us in here." He hits the door again, furious and futile and pained. The sound echoes through the Justice Building. "We - we have to do something." He looks at her, expecting her to answer, his face falling when all he gets is silence.

Arya closes her eyes and waits, quietly, until one of the peacekeepers orders her to move.

\- 

The room they bring her to is vaguely familiar. Arya is instructed by the peacekeeper to sit and wait for visitors. She runs her hand over the soft velvet of the couch, curling her knees up to her chest, breathing in the smell of dust and mothballs. She's been in this room once, just before Robb left. The memory sparks something, a terrible thought creeping into her mind - what if they're angry at her for volunteering? What if her mother is angry at her? What if she won't let Jon and Sansa say goodbye? 

But there are footsteps, and the dark, heavy wooden door creaks open. Her head jerks up, tears threatening to spill over again as her family comes tumbling through the door. 

Jon reaches her first. His body slams into hers, arms wrapped around her waist so tight she stops breathing, his face pressed into her shoulder. "You're so," he chokes out, his breath hot against her ear. "you're so fucking stupid. Arya. _Gods._ "

She knows. She _knows._ "I'm sorry," Arya whispers. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking, I couldn’t even think about it, I just - I knew there was one way to stop it and I just - I didn't think, I _couldn't_ -"

"It's all right, baby," Catelyn says, her hands smoothing across her back as Bran closes the door behind her. She kisses her hair once, twice, and Arya's heart breaks all over again because this is it. This is the last time. "It's all right. I know. I love you." Catelyn holds her close, cradling Arya in her arms like she's a little girl again. "You're so brave, my little wolf. So very brave." 

Bran's lip trembles as he lays his head on Arya's shoulder; Rickon's fully sobbing now, his eyes all red and puffy. "Yaya," He whimpers, and it breaks her heart because he hasn't called her that since he was four. "Yaya, you can't go, please. Don't go." 

_You can't go, Robbie,_ Arya had wept, clinging to the collar of his shirt, and this moment is almost like that, a warped-mirror version of that day. Robb had pried her off him, setting gently her on the floor. Now she does the same with her little brother. Arya tries to wipe the tears from his eyes, but they flow faster than she can dry them.

"I have to," she tells Rickon. "You know they're making me. I don't have a choice." She wraps her arms around him, on the brink of collapsing from fear, because, more than anything, Arya Stark does not want to die.

"I'm sorry," Sansa whispers.

"It's not your fault," Arya insists. "It isn't." She swallows. "I, I made the choice. And I don't regret it. Any of it." 

"But you can - you're going to try to win," Sansa says desperately. "Please, Arya - you can do it. You're fast. Strong. Stronger than anyone I know. You can do it, I know you," she hiccups. "I know you can." 

But where's the use in lying now? She knows how to sew wounds, make poultices, she's a fast runner, but she doesn't know how to fight. She doesn't know how to kill. "Sansa-"

"She'll try," Jon interrupts, tears streaming down his face. She's never seen Jon cry, ever. Even when Lyanna died, he'd seemed to be so strong. Even when Robb had left, he'd stood there, stone-faced, grim. All of that is gone now, washed away by moments and a Reaping bowl. "Won't you, Arya? Try?"

Arya stares at him for a moment, sagging into the velvet couch. "Yeah - yeah, of course I will." 

She could cry when she sees how much the admission soothes Sansa's worries, how her mother seems to physically soften at her words. She pulls the five of them close, shifting from her mother's lap to Jon's, clinging onto all them like they’re the last things in the world.

The next twenty minutes pass like that. 

They don't make plans for when she's gone.

"Two minutes," The peacekeeper barks from the other side of the door. "Departure in fifteen." 

Suddenly they're as tense as before, everyone stiffening around her. Bran's the first to pull away, then Rickon, then Sansa and Catelyn, holding each other around the waist. Arya shudders and links her fingers with Jon's, holding on for one more moment.

"You have to take care of them now," She says, her words grating with emotion, careful to keep her voice low so that the others can't hear. “It's going to be harder without me. You'll still have to work at the mine, but there has to be someone to go to the Hob and wash the dishes and run the accounting for Mom’s apothecary. Sansa will teach you how. You'll figure it out, I know you will. So can you do that for me, Jon? Can you help them?" Her mother - she doesn’t know about her mother. But she'd survived Robb and Father. Arya hopes, so badly, that she can survive this too.

"I will," Her cousin - brother - swears to her. He wipes his cheeks, rubbing away the drying tearstains."You can trust me. But you can make it. You're gonna do this. You're gonna come back. I love you, Arya. And I won’t-”

She doesn’t get the chance to hear what he won’t do, because just then the door swings open, a peacekeeper walking through. "Time's up," he says flatly. 

Arya stands from the couch, her bones protesting, and before the peacekeeper can drag them apart she hugs each of her siblings one more time, watching them go out the door. Her back hunches as Catelyn stops in front of her, reaching up to clutch Arya's face between her hands. There are calluses on her palms, calluses she hadn't even known were there, formed by years of grief and labor, and raising six children, one by one. 

"I'm so proud of you," she says. 

"Mom," Arya whispers. The small, desperate child inside of her sobs out, _Mommy._

"Your time's up, Miss Stark."

"She's my daughter," Her mother snaps. "Just give me one more minute, will you?"

The peacekeeper watches them, hesitant, before nodding slowly. "One minute, then." 

"I'm so proud of you," Catelyn repeats. She presses something into Arya's hand, something small and wooden. "I want you to have this, Arya. They let you take one token into the arena. One thing to remind you of your home. I want it to be this." 

"He loved it so much," Catelyn says as Arya stares down at the small chip of wood, no bigger than a coin. Robb had spent hours carving the wolf's head into the coin-sized piece of wood, getting it just right. _Doesn't it look like Grey Wind?_ He'd said, pointing at the small, scruffy stray that had followed him home from the coal mines. Arya had laughed, but his smile only grew bigger. _The teeth are the same, don't you see? The eyes, the body, the fur..._

She remembers scooping it up from the kitchen table the day he was reaped. Slipping it into her pocket almost unconsciously. Winding it around her shoelace at the last moment, draping it around his neck in this very room. _For good luck,_ Arya had told her brother, but nine weeks later, he'd been dead. 

She'd forgotten about it until now. The weight of it is familiar in her palm, though. Arya can almost see him, sitting on the floor of the room he shared with Jon, perfecting each detail, painstakingly. 

"When they brought him back, I thought that they had lost it in the arena. It was so small, I thought it was gone forever, but it wasn't. It was right there, in his pocket. They couldn't find the lace, but..." She closes Arya's fist around the token. "He'd want you to have it if he was here." 

"Ma'am," The peacekeeper says forcefully. "Ma'am, you have to leave."

Catelyn doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she leans forward and presses her lips to Arya's cheek, tugging her close between her and the peacekeeper.

"I love you. I _love_ you. Never forget that." She says as she's halfway out the door. "Come home to us, Arya. Please. Come-" 

The door slams shut behind her. The last image Arya has of her mother is the wisps of red hair escaping from her bun, the hard line of her mouth as the peacekeeper yanks her out the door. 

Her footsteps recede through the Justice Building. 

Arya is alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know, i shouldn't be starting another story when i already have a wip, but i've wanted to write a hunger games au for so long that i just couldn't resist publishing the first chapter! please tell me if you liked the concept of this fic and if you think i should continue it; i'm so excited to write more.
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


	2. two.

The peacekeepers stay bare inches behind Arya and Gendry in the hallway. It's only a few hundred feet from the Justice Building to the train station, but somehow the distance feels so much longer - especially with their District Escort at their side. 

"Your compartments will be fully equipped with all your needs," Janos says, "and anything else you want can be requested. You'll have separate rooms if you like, a screen and music system, enough food to stuff yourselves. You won't be disappointed," Slynt adds to Gendry as he waves them onward to the Justice Building's glass back door. They drag their feet, but follow anyway, because really, what else can they do? They could run - they could - but tributes who run never get very far, even if the Capitol says otherwise. "Train's nicer than most of the homes here."

He turns his back before Arya can glare at him, although there's no way Slynt could miss Gendry's scowl. Her District partner doesn't look the way Arya feels - like today is a waking nightmare, like every step they take brings them farther away from their family, their District, their home. His eyes are dry. His back is straight. He stands tall and strong, his glower stubbornly persistent. He’s tense, but he doesn’t look afraid. 

He doesn't look like someone who's about to leave everything he knows.

Arya bites her lip, scrutinizing. It’s really not her place to notice, but she can't recall seeing any brothers or sisters in his wake, friends, or schoolmates who came to see him off. She hadn't seen his parents either, and, remembering the way he hadn't looked at anyone in the Reaping crowd, Arya is inclined to think that he had nobody to say goodbye to at all. 

Which reminds her.

 _They can't do this to us,_ he'd said earlier in the Justice Building. _They can't just lock us in here._ But it's so ridiculous, the thought that the Capitol can't do anything, that Arya snorts despite herself. Gendry glances over at her curiously while Slynt prattles on about the Capitol - "The journey will only take a few short hours," - his footsteps landing harder on the sidewalk.

His jaw ticks with irritation. "Something funny?" He asks, an edge appearing in his voice. 

"Not really," Arya answers. She tries to sound as standoffish as Gendry does, but it doesn't work - she's always been more predisposed to friendliness, whereas Gendry, unsurprisingly, isn't. Still, she stands up straighter, pushing her shoulders back indignantly so that her head almost comes up to his bicep. "Something wrong?"

"Not really," He parrots back at her, "unless you consider being sent off to our imminent deaths a problem."

"It's not exactly ideal," she says under her breath, "but I think I've been through worse." She tilts her head towards Slynt. "Meeting him, for starters." 

They both laugh, quietly, in the way that acknowledges that it's a joke for both of them, but also somehow not. Arya clutches her hands in front of her and only briefly looks at him before looking down again, exhaling shakily. It feels wrong to laugh when only minutes ago she'd been crying.

But it’s not wrong to want to talk to Gendry. To laugh with him. He’s a stranger, but they’re connected now, in the way only fellow tributes can be.

A second passes, then another. Gendry clears his throat to get her attention. 

"That was brave of you," he says. "What you did in the square. Volunteering for your sister. It looked hard on your part. With your family there and everything. Not a lot of other people would've done the same. I don't know if I could've. If...if I had a sister, anyways." 

Arya looks at him, and her mouth feels dry. She reaches down, touching the wooden token in her pocket. A sad, small smile flits across her face.

"It was her last year," she says finally. "It wouldn't have been right for her to go." 

"You two bonding?" Slynt calls over his shoulder, the amusement in his voice making Arya shift uncomfortably as Gendry quickly inches away. "No, no," He reassures them, cutting a wide berth across the sidewalk, "it's all good. Last year - gods, the arguing just wouldn't stop." 

Arya shakes her head, disgusted as she looks down at the pavement. She recollects the tributes from last year, both of them skinny, underfed teenagers from the Seam; Alys Karstark, and Satin Flowers, who Jon had been friends with in elementary.

Neither of them had lasted more than a day in their Games. Neither had been older than fifteen. But they'd been good kids. Friendly, no matter what Slynt says. She can't think of a single instance of them arguing, not on anything that was televised. She does remember, however, Alys' brother walking around with an empty look on his face, and Satin's mother crying when they'd taken him from Twelve.

At last, they reach the train station. It's crowded with more peacekeepers than she's ever seen, even at Reapings, and at least a dozen Capitol reporters wait behind hastily constructed barricades. Their cameras click noisily as Arya approaches. Their bulbs flash so brightly that her eyes hurt. She's surprised to hear a few of the reporters calling out her name, but she follows Slynt's example and ignores them. 

As they're climbing onto the train, Arya lets Gendry go first, turning back to take one last look at Twelve. She can hear the reporters shouting at her, the chatter of walkie-talkies, the hiss of the train's engine - but above that is the sound of the wind, the trees swaying beyond the fence, the blue sky which seems to stretch on for forever. Even farther beyond is the Hob, the Justice Building, the high school, the streets she's walked for her whole life.

This is her District. This is her home. That is something that will never change - no matter where they take her. 

“Hey,” Slynt says, knocking her on the shoulder. “Let’s go, the thing’s about to take off and nobody wants you toppling out."

Arya nods faintly as she pulls herself into the train car, the doors sliding shut with a quiet shush. Then a peacekeeper comes, locks it, and stands in front of it. As if she'd try something.

”It’s about twelve hours to the Capitol,” Slynt tells them. “So settle in, get comfortable. We’ve got plenty of things to keep you that way.”

Their mentor's in the other car, and some dinner, but she ate breakfast this morning and doesn't feel especially hungry. Janos leaves them in the main compartment, saying something about how he's positively starving and can't wait to get his hands on a bowl of stewed honey plums.

Arya's never even heard of those.

Moments later, the train starts moving abruptly, throwing itself forward on the rails. Gendry twitches in surprise, leaning over to brace his hand against the wall. The sensation is equally unfamiliar to Arya. She lurches with the train as her stomach turns unexpectedly. 

"I'm good," she says, just in case Gendry tries to help her. "I...I'm not gonna fall." Arya closes her eyes for a second, getting used to the feeling. Still, the queasiness isn't fading, and she's brutally aware that the worst thing she could do right now is vomit on the train car's carpet floor.

"I'm sorry," she starts, "I, I need to go lie down. I don't feel well. Could you - if you're going to eat - could you just tell them I'll be out later?"

Arya turns before he can say anything or, gods forbid, follow her, stumbling out of the main car into the next one. She finds a blond Avox standing in one of the corridors. After a few seconds of miscommunication, he manages to direct her to her sleeping car, albeit reluctantly. "I'll come out soon," Arya insists. That seems to reassure him. 

Her room is lavishly furnished, with far more couches and sitting chairs than one person (tribute) could ever need. The walls are hung with paintings, the tables littered with expensive objects she's only ever seen in books or on television, and the bed - the bed is soft as pillowed down, but she sits on the edge of it, hesitant to fall into the mattress. Arya knows that this is one of the last beds she might ever sleep in, that dozens of other kids have slept here, too, and that most of them are dead, murdered, lost in the arena. 

That isn't what gets to her, though. What gets to her is that those kids had been like her, with all their hopes and dreams and eccentricities, all those little details that could cut a person deep if you thought too hard about them. They'd sat here, right here, on this bed. And they'd probably talked to the same Escort, the same Avox, been served the same kind of food out of the same silver platters.

Now they're just memories on old Reaping tapes, flickers of light and sound on the Games recaps the Capitol runs every few years. Their families will remember them, but no one else will. If they're lucky enough, or if their Games were memorable, then maybe their District will recall them in passing. 

Maybe. But only then. 

She gets up abruptly, walking over to the provided wardrobe. As expected there are several rows of shirts and pants inside, the number excessive for the duration of time they'll spend here. Arya ignores those, unwilling to part from the clothes her mother gave her. The clothes aren't what she needs, anyways. 

Underneath is what she's looking for - a row of leather boots, supple and unworn. She settles down cross-legged on the floor, brushing her hair away from her eyes before pulling one of the laces free from its boot, threading it through the keyhole of Robb's token. She ties off carefully at the end.

Arya tugs on it once, twice, to make sure it's secure. Slowly she drapes it around her neck, settling it gently at the base of her collarbone. 

I have to go, Arya. They're not giving me a choice. 

It hadn't mattered, in the end, that all those kids were different, with all their hopes and dreams. Because no one knew the reasons why they lived, only how they died, and hadn't Arya learned that from her father? Hadn't she learned that from Robb? 

Isn't that why she's here, with the same token around her neck and the same dread hanging over her? 

But it isn’t dread she's feeling. It's something else, something undefinable. It's the black space below her, null and void; it's her father bleeding out in the middle of the Reaping square; it's Aunt Lyanna with roses in her hair, alive one moment, gone the next. It's Robb drowning in his blood, Rickon writhing feverishly in his crib, her mother growing thin and skeletal.

It’s hopeless, empty like there’s a part of her missing, a piece of her soul that was eager and carefree. She'd had it before, but it's gone now, and Arya wishes she could go back to being everything she’d been when her father was alive - everything she’d been when the Hunger Games were nothing but a far-off, distant nightmare. 

-

The same blond Avox knocks on her door an hour later, instructing her that her presence has been requested in the dining car. 

Arya lets her feet carry her through the swaying hallways without really thinking. Sunlight is beaming in through the windows of the train. Outside, they're passing through a mountain range.

The sight makes her pause for a moment. Arya's been beyond the fence a few times, and once she even went to District Eleven, but she's never seen mountains quite like this, so tall and lush with freedom. They're beautiful, forested, almost glowing in the orange-red light. She wishes Sansa could be here to see them, in a way that didn't barrel her towards the Capitol. 

She wonders if they'd let her send a picture.

The room isn't empty when Arya enters. The sound of silverware clinks softly in her ears; Slynt is gone, luckily. Gendry stands quietly at one of the opposite windows, watching the scenery go by. He looks up when she enters, frowning. Arya's attention is suddenly drawn to the only other person in the room. 

Sandor Clegane, District Twelve's only Victor in the last thirty years, doesn't acknowledge her arrival. He's focused on a plate of red meat and greens - Arya can't begin to name half of the foods laid out on the ten-foot-long buffet table - his dark hair falling lank around his shoulders as he saws jaggedly at his meal.

"Good," Clegane says, directing his words to the china. "You're both here now. Sit down," he says gruffly, not bothering to introduce himself. "Or stand. I don't fucking care." 

She casts a wary look at Gendry. He looks back at her, at Clegane, then out at the mountains, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I'm not hungry," Arya says finally, and she's surprised at the speed with which Clegane slams his fist down on the table. 

"Then sit," He says through gritted teeth, the scarred part of his face twisting into a snarl. That's how she realizes it's there - the scar. 

Sandor Clegane, she remembers. Victor of the thirty-ninth annual Hunger Games.

His brother was a Victor from an earlier Games, shipped off to the Capitol in the early years of his career to be a television personality. Gregor had been a fan favorite among the people, charming and witty with the press, but his little brother - a drunk, angry man who was most famous for a mysterious scar sustained in childhood - hadn't been half as popular in the wake of his Games. Years later, when Gregor died, it was Sandor who was assigned to mentor the tributes of District Twelve. He was supposed to help them win. To keep them safe, and alive, and whole. 

For twenty-five years, he hasn't once succeeded. 

Arya sits anyways, because he’s supposed to be her mentor, and she stares down at the silverware that costs more than a week's worth of meals at home. Gendry slips into the chair beside her after filling a plate of food - Arya's surprised he hasn't already eaten. She looks at the cheese-smothered potatoes and beef. It smells delicious, but it looks so rich that Arya doubts she could keep it down. 

She doesn't know what to do here.

The silence stretches out, the air growing thick with tension. 

Clegane looks at both of them and then stabs his steak again, blood running down the china. "I'm not going to talk until you say it," he demands. 

"What?" Arya asks. The tension snaps. 

"Say it," he repeats. "Whatever you're thinking, whatever you want to ask - do it now. Is it this?" He asks, pointing at the ruined left side of his face. "They usually want to know where I got it from. Or who gave it to me, rather. It's all right. Don't be frightened. Come out with it, if you have to. Kill whatever bug you have up your arse with me, girl; we'll both be better off for it." He looks up at her. "You have a bone to pick with me?"

"No," Arya says, disarmed by his crudeness. "I don't."

"Don’t like me, then?" He prods her viciously. She doesn't understand why; they've only just met each other. "The boy doesn't," Clegane continues, like Gendry isn't right there at the table. "I can see it in his eyes. I'm not so sure about you." 

"Of course you aren't." Arya scowls. "I can’t like you, or hate you. I - I don't know you. You're just our mentor, aren't you?"

"Your mentor," Clegane scoffs. "Of course I am. Are there any other Victors around here? No. Of course there aren't." He narrows his eyes. "And lots of people don't know me, girl, but that's never stopped them from hating me before, Capitol or not." Sandor wipes his mouth off with a napkin. "It certainly didn't stop your brother." 

Gendry's fork slips briefly from his hand, clunking gently against the table. He recovers quickly enough, too slowly for Arya to ignore it. She isn't sure if he's just shocked, or if he didn't realize the connection in the first place.

Frankly, she doesn't care. 

Arya takes a shuddering breath. "You knew Robb," she says, choosing to be direct. "You knew Jeyne, too. You...you mentored them, didn't you?"

He nods. Arya grips the edge of the table, hungry to hear more. "He hated you?"

"He hated me," Clegane confirms. "So did the girl. That doesn't matter. They were strong and smart. Capable. I saw that. I kept them alive as long as I could. Got the Capitol to love them. Made a name for the two of them, even before they stepped foot in that arena. But none of it worked. He was weak, your brother - weak for her, and that's what cost him. So he died." He turns his head, addressing Gendry. "They both did." 

"That's fucking rich," Arya blurts out, "telling us that we're going to die before we even get there." 

Clegane just sneers. "I saw you volunteer for your sister," He bites. "The little bird, with the red hair and blue eyes. Pretty thing, her. Not very pretty when she cried." He turns that piercing gaze on Gendry. "And you. They chose you, didn't they? How many times was your name in the Reaping bowl? Fifty times? Sixty? A hundred?" He laughs, grimly. "No one was volunteering then." 

"I didn't expect anyone to," Gendry says through gritted teeth. "I don't - I didn't have anyone who would." 

"You're angry," Clegane says, pointing his knife at him. He's focused now. "You're resentful. That's good. Keep that anger. The hurt. Remember it. It'll help you when you're in there." 

"Help me?" Gendry asks angrily. "Help me? How the hells would it-"

"Stop. Talking," Clegane snaps. "We're done here." He stands from his chair, Arya and Gendry following suit immediately. "No," he says, almost chastising. "I need to think. Alone. I'll send for you later when I'm ready. For now, stay here. Eat, both of you." He looks Arya up and down. "Gods know you need the weight." 

"You can't go," Arya finds herself saying. "Not yet, you - you haven't told us anything about the Games. You haven't told us what to do, or what's it's like in the arena. We have to know those things!"

"You're panicking, aren't you?" Clegane asks her knowingly. Arya falls silent, trying to school her features into calmness the same way that Sansa would. "I understand why - but try not to feel that way. It won't help you, not a damn bit." He starts for the door before turning back, leering. "You want advice, girl? Here's some for you. When you're in there - because you will be in there - the best thing you can do is try not to fucking die." He gives her a firm, uncompromising nod. "Like I said. I'll send for you."

The doors shut almost silently behind him. Arya stares at him, fighting the urge to bury her head into her hands and scream, hating the bleakness of this new reality. Next to her, Gendry gives a similar ragged exhale. The silence in the train car is thick and heavy, broken only by-

"What an asshole," Gendry mutters. "We knew that one already, didn't we?"

And Arya looks up at him, stunned, the laugh flowing past her lips before she can even think to capture it.

"Yeah," she whispers after a moment, "Yeah, we did."

-

"I knew your brother," Gendry announces suddenly, standing a few feet away as she ladles a thick, creamy stew onto her plate. Arya glances at him, unsure, her hand wavering before going very still. She knows he's talking about Robb because of the way that he won't look at her. So she just walks back over to the table and sets her plate down, carefully. 

"You did?" The sun is setting outside, a haze of red and gold. Her mother is probably making dinner now, a meal of brown rice and stale bread, and whatever else they bargained for at the Hob. Arya clears her throat and starts eating, ignoring the way the food feels like dust running slowly down her throat. "I...he never mentioned you." 

"I saw him at the Hob a few times," Gendry explains. "He'd come to my shop sometimes. I didn't know him very well, but," Gendry shakes his head. "He seemed like a good guy." 

"He was." A small crease forms between her eyebrows, her mind snagging inexplicably on one of the things Gendry had said. Everyone in Twelve went to the Hob - it was the only way to survive, really - but Robb had always seemed vaguely disapproving of the practice, hesitant to buy anything outsourced from the District. He always said that one day it could get them in trouble with Capitol. But she's so anxious to talk about her brother in a way that doesn't involve other people's pity, that she brushes over it with a shrug. "You said you had a shop?" She questions. "What exactly were you selling?" 

"Pickaxes for the miners," Gendry says evasively, "horseshoes, things like that. I had an apprenticeship at the smithy. It wasn't anything special."

That explains how he looks so strong - tall where most of the kids in the Seam are undergrown and more muscular than a coal miner. She wants to ask more about his work, but Gendry he clamps his jaw shut and looks pensively off into the distance, apparently drawn back into the reserved shell he's had on since the Reaping. Arya spoons another mouthful past her lips, still curious, although she senses that he won't give more away.

It's almost perfect timing anyways - at that moment the television in the corner flickers to life, a recorded version of today's Reapings playing across the screen. It's accompanied by the nation's anthem and some applause that sounds so canned, it must be studio-recorded.

Arya looks at Gendry, and he seems to think the same thing as she does, quickly standing and walking over to one of the closer tables. She grabs the remote and jacks the volume up as high as possible. This is their first look at the rest of the competition - the first chance for Arya to see the people that truly stand a chance of killing her. Before, the thought of the other tributes had seemed like something abstract, a danger that was obvious but not quite present. Knowing their names, knowing their faces, will make this feel more real. For both her and Gendry, who looks strangely pale as he focuses on the television.

She slumps into her chair - digging her fingers into the softest material she's ever felt - the sound of her thudding heartbeat nearly drowning out the opening commentary. As usual, the Reapings are broadcasted in reverse, starting with District Twelve, although in real life they'd be staggered from hour to hour. Arya doesn't pay much attention to her Reaping. Just thinking about it makes her skin crawl, and what's done is done, anyway; it's not as though she can change the past. It's still eerie, how silent the crowd is when Slynt announces her and Gendry as tributes, how Sansa twists towards Arya in a way that seems more desperate than reality.

Her brother is mentioned only once, by way of a briefly mocking comment about how the Starks have had bad luck in their Games. It's not untrue, exactly, considering that Robb had only been reaped years earlier. It still irks her - still pulls at her skin that the Capitol manages to find humor in the situation. When Robb was alive, these people had loved him. They'd placed bets on how far he'd make it, wondering repeatedly how long it would take for the Young Wolf to win his Games. Now he's only a joke to them, her family's pain serving as a convenient source of irony. 

Arya bites down on the inside of her cheek, tasting her own blood. 

They watch silently as each subsequent Reaping is broadcasted, one by one, men and women reaching their manicured hands into dozens of identical glass bowls. They pull out names that are unfamiliar to Arya, although they must be everything to the people standing in those crowds. The children they call up look terrified at worst, shellshocked at best. Some of them are worse than others.

The male tribute from Eleven, a plump boy not much older than Bran, takes his place on the stage in silence. His District companion, a twelve-year-old girl with stringy blonde hair, has to be dragged kicking and screaming to the platform. She turns to face the cameras, her pointed little face filled wide with shock and fear. For a second Arya hopes that someone will volunteer in her place, and she feels that abject emotion stirring in her - hope. Nobody says a word, though, and the broadcast moves onto Ten as the girl and her District partner are corralled into their version of the Justice Building.

It makes her feel a little ill.

At least the next few Districts are uneventful, but then they get to District Four, and a boy her age volunteers as tribute. People cheer when he steps up, and Arya gets a shock when she hears him introduce himself as Theon Greyjoy. "He's from that Victor family," She realizes out loud. "His sister, Asha. She's the one who won last year." Arya doesn't wait to see how Gendry reacts. If Theon's lean build and confident expression are anything to go by, as well as the way the announcers go wild at his appearance...he'll be a contender in their Games. 

The other names fly by in bits and pieces - Bella, Edric, Grenn, Arianne, Pyp, Margaery, and, surprisingly, Loras Tyrell - a volunteer from Three who joins his sister with a grin, jutting his chin out in a way that is nothing less than cocky. She can hear the excitement in the announcer's voice as they approach the final two Districts, the ones that have always dominated the Victor lists.

Arya is unsurprised by Two's female tribute: Dacey Mormont, another volunteer from another Victor family. She's met with a mixture of boos and cheers, likely from the other kids who wanted a shot at volunteering. But the crowd simply parts for the boy from District Two, who stares into the camera with his lips twisted at the corners, his eyes a startling, electric blue. They could resemble Gendry's if they weren't so large and cold.

Ramsay Bolton stands up to volunteer like he was born for it, his sloped shoulders rippling underneath a cruel, snakelike expression. Even Dacey seems unnerved as he joins her on the stage, hard as she tries to hide it.

Arya has to stifle a loud, hysterical laugh. Somehow the names of the District One tributes end up escaping her attention. 

_You can do it,_ Sansa had said, _I know you can. You're fast. Strong. Stronger than anyone I know._ But Arya is nothing compared to the boy who stepped up in District Two - she is nothing next to any of the Careers, who volunteered out of confidence, not desperation. 

She can't even compare to Gendry. He looks at her, and she looks back, taking in the strength of his arms, how well-fed he is compared to her, to any of the middling Districts. Arya's vision goes fuzzy, dapples, warps slightly, as fear begins wiggling and worming in her stomach.

She knows now that she won't win this year, not in these Games. Not against Ramsay, or Theon, or Gendry, for gods' sake. Arya had always known that one of the tributes she's just seen could be the one to kill her, in the case that she somehow didn't starve or freeze to death first. But she'd been so worried about the competition in the other Districts that she hadn't even thought about the boy in front of her. 

And she doesn't stand a gods-damned chance against a single one of them, no matter what she'd promised Jon.

She flees to her room minutes afterward and retches up what little she ate into the too-pristine toilet bowl, her eyes burning, her limbs aching fiercely. She hears knocking on her door. Maybe it's the Avox again, maybe it's someone else, or maybe it's just the pounding in her head because it fades soon afterward. 

She limps towards her bed, crawling between the cool sheets and sinking into a long and restless sleep.

Arya dreams of the arena that night, of a wide dark forest and a pale field of wilting winter roses. There are shadows all around her, the faint smell of her mother's old perfume lingering in the air, a pair of blue eyes hovering over hers, except it's so dark that she can't tell if they're Gendry's or the brutish boy's from Two. It doesn't matter though, because there's a set of hands wrapped tight around her throat, holding fast with the searing intent to kill. She gasps for air, choking out a frantic plea - for a moment the pressure lessens. She's relieved.

But he's only shifting over her, a wraith wrapped in bleary darkness. He peers down at Arya, and then his hands are squeezing even harder, tightening further around her throat, choking, clenching, gripping-

Gone.

-

She jerks awake to see Sandor Clegane standing over her, the scarred half of his face drooping with a scowl. He grabs her by the shoulder, shaking away the remnants of her dream. Arya bats at him before he swats her hand away in irritation.

"It was just a nightmare," he tells her gruffly, "you're not dreaming anymore."

No. She isn't. Arya sits up, wiping her eyes, looking out the window at the barren landscape racing by outside. They're not in the Districts anymore, she thinks. All the mountains are gone. 

Her mentor blinks at her, something hard set in the corners of his mouth. They stay that way for a while, caught in an invisible standstill. 

"You should clean yourself up a little," Clegane finally says. "Train reaches the Capitol in an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment/review if you liked this chapter; it would mean the world to me!
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


	3. three.

It doesn’t feel like an hour to the Capitol.

It feels so, so much faster than that.

Arya doesn't even have time to think about what's happening, because as soon as she showers and puts on a fresh set of clothes Clegane is ushering her and Gendry into the main compartment, ordering them to stand up straight.

She digs her fingers into the fabric of her new dress as Gendry stands beside her. It feels soft against her skin, soft like the velvet of the train car chair, and she grounds herself in the feel of it as the automatic doors sweep open. A gust of cold air and a screaming crowd is there to greet them on the steps of the illustrious Capitol.

Slynt walks out ahead of them, entirely too confident in his stride.

"Don't panic," Sandor mutters. He puts a hand on Gendry's shoulder, the other around Arya's elbow, and begins to firmly steer them through the crowd. But Arya isn't panicking, even if Gendry is; strangely enough, she's rather fascinated. She keeps catching glimpses of hair in vivid blues and pink; garish colors, satin dresses, glittery suits that threaten to engulf them with their numbers. She looks over at Gendry, seeing the same muted shock on his face. The same thought is probably playing through his mind too.

_Is this what people are like here?_

_Is this the way they live?_

The crowd presses in on them from all sides, but Slynt does a decent job with crowd control, making sure the way is clear to walk.

"Now, now," he says amiably to one of the blue-haired women who tries to introduce herself to Gendry, "let's not get too excited, shall we?"

"Sure," Gendry says to Arya. "Like it isn't his goal to make this thing a spectacle."

It's loud enough that he has to dip in a bit, his breath hitting the shell of her ear.

"Don't try to stop him," Arya replies. "One of us might get our necks broken if he doesn't keep them back."

"At least it'd be a quick death," He says flatly. She doesn't quite know how to answer that.

Arya hears a man yell her name, pitched and frantic. She blinks and picks up her pace, suddenly grateful for the entourage of Peacekeepers that shoves the reporter back a few feet. One of them lifts his gun threateningly, but that doesn't stop him from forcing his way past them.

"Arya!" He calls. Arya flinches, not liking the way her name sounds coming from a stranger's lips. "Miss Stark! What was it like volunteering for your sister?" She ducks her head, trying to ignore him. "Please, could you tell us a bit about-"

"Fuck off," Clegane says brashly. "They've only just arrived. Haven't you-" His eyes dart rapidly around, like he's searching for an answer. "Fucking vultures," he settles on, which causes another frenzy of shouting as the Capitol limo pulls up ten feet away from the train station.

It's silent as soon as the door shuts. The car must be soundproof. Arya slides in first to the furthest seat, Gendry squeezing in next to her, Sandor and Slynt across from him. Arya twists away from Gendryand presses her fingertips against the transparent glass, watching the bulky shadows move back and forth. "They can't reach us in here, can they?"

"The glass is bulletproof," Clegane says dryly. “You're completely safe." He reaches in front and taps the shoulder of their driver - a man whose head has been shaved and then tattooed with a design of elaborate, multicolored swirls. "Is there anything to drink to in here?"

"Left-hand compartment," The driver answers monotonously. "On your other side." Then he hits a button, causing a glass partition to slide up between them, and pulls away from the station. The windows of the car darken just then - probably to prevent them from viewing the rest of the tribute cars. It's a relief. If Arya had to take in any more of the station, her head would probably explode.

"It's only noon," Slynt says as Clegane uncorks a bottle of alcohol. He sounds vaguely disapproving, but he's silenced by a muttered insult and a glare. Arya wrinkles her nose as the smell of something strong fills the velvety interior.

She's dealt with alcohol often, used it on scrapes and other injuries, but Arya's never tasted it before. Sometimes her dad would drink on New Year's, but the most vivid memory Arya has of the stuff is from the day that Robb died. She remembers Jon drinking something sharp and white, out of a bottle he'd purchased from the Hob.

"It makes it hurt less," he'd told her, cradling the bottle in his arms. When Arya asked what _it_ was, Jon shook his head and said _everything._ He'd said it made his head feel light, fuzzy, like for an instant the world finally stood still. Like all his problems went away.

Clegane notices her staring. He holds out the bottle knowingly and shakes it back and forth. "What, you want a taste?"

"I've never had any," Arya says uncertainly. "I don't think that I'd like it." Whatever he's drinking doesn't smell particularly pleasant, more rotten than fermented. She'd like to keep a straight head, too, especially since they're going to meet the other tributes in less than a few short hours.

But the temptation and the knowledge that she might never taste something this expensive is killing her, so she ends up taking the bottle anyways, holding it gingerly to her lips. Arya takes a sip - small, then longer, until she's gulping down the bitter liquid.

She thinks she hears Gendry sigh.

Clegane gives a dark chuckle: "There's a familiar sight." He extends his arm; Arya purses her lips and hands the decanter back over. She licks her lips a little, getting the last of that sour-sweet taste. A pleasant buzz starts to fill her veins. Whether the drink is having an effect on her, or if it's all her imagination, she can’t be completely sure.

"What?" Arya says defensively when she catches Gendry watching her. He’s wearing the same expression Slynt has on - that is to say, mildly annoyed. "You should try some too. Maybe it'll help."

"I don't drink," is all he says.

"Suit yourself," Arya and Sandor say together. Gendry glances between both of them, confused.

She has to laugh. But she doesn't ask for the bottle, even though it's practically calling out her name.

"Where are we going now?" Arya asks softly when the quiet rumble of the tires is too much for her to bear. "I mean...what's next for us?"

"The arena," Clegane says heavily. His voice is more serious than before. "But before that - the Remake Center. Haircuts, nails, tans. Then the opening ceremonies. I'll tell you now: Remake won't be a pleasant experience for either of you. Chances are it'll be worse for you," He tilts his head at Arya, "but they're not particularly gentle with the boys, either. Whatever they do to you, don't argue. You won't, not if you want sponsors."

"Sponsors?" Gendry shakes his head.

"The Capitol cunts up there," Sandor points somewhere over his head. Slynt recoils a little. "The ones who control who gets what in the arena. It's not as though this is a beauty contest-" he gestures at the mangled mess of his features as if reminding them of its presence. "But looking good won't hurt."

She nods. "Jory Cassel," Arya reminds Gendry. "Remember?"

His lips purse for a moment before his eyes flicker with recognition. Jory Cassel was a tribute from a few years back, an eighteen-year-old from the Seam. He hadn't been the strongest or the best fighter, but he was handsome. Charming. He'd won a lot of hearts that year. A lot of sponsorships to go with it. If it hadn't been for a well-placed ax from District Two, he might have made it to the end. But there wasn't any point in denying that his connections had gone a long way in keeping him alive.

Arya's willing to let them pull a few hairs if that means she gets half as many favors.

Their little foursome doesn't talk much after that until the car rolls to an abrupt halt. The windows turn transparent. They've parked outside the Remake Center. Or rather, they've parked _inside_ the Remake Center, because when the doors open everything is glossy white, empty, the inside open all through the middle for stylists and prep teams to stream through. It's downright utilitarian. There aren't any other tributes around though. Arya guesses that each one has their prep room. She's proven correct when six primped, decorated people locate her and Gendry within a matter of seconds.

"Arya Stark? Gendry Waters?" One of them chirps, a man with curved blue eyebrows.

"You're District Twelve, right?" A woman adds as she bats eyelashes so thick and full they look like spiders. Arya jerks her chin in affirmation. "Come this way. Come, come." She seizes Arya's wrist. The man takes Gendry's arm.

Arya glances fervently back at Clegane, but he's already gone. So is the limo, and Slynt.

"Is this-" She hisses to Gendry, "are they-"

"See you after," he says sheepishly before a girl with delicate-looking dyed skin urges him through a doorway.

"I'm sorry," Arya shakes her head. She looks at the most normal of the bunch, a middle-aged woman with a soft figure and steel hair shot through with blue. "Who are you?"

"Sharna Crossroads, miss," The woman replies. Her voice is deep, clear; she seems to lack the typical Capitol accent that makes every word sound like an exclamation. "I'm the head of your prep team."

"Right." She nods. "You're...are you going to cut my hair?"

Sharna reaches up to pluck her cheek. She does it so quickly that Arya doesn't have a chance to pull away. "Yes, miss," She says, settling back onto the marble flooring. "That, and so much more."

-

 _So much more_ apparently means ripping every hair on Arya's body out by its pores, lathering her down with a fine soapy substance, and then perfuming every inch of her half-naked body with a scent that smells like gooseberries. She grits her teeth as Sharna and the rest of the team circle around her like a trio of birds. Arya tries to distract from it by making conversation with her prep team. "What-" She winces as the last of her leg hair is torn away, disposed of swiftly into a sterile-looking wastebasket. "What are your names?"

"I'm Jeyne," the young woman with the heavy eyelashes says brightly. "This is Willow, my sister." She smiles at the other girl, who can't be more than sixteen. Her face is as unmodified as Sharna's although that's likely just because of how young she is. She's pretty, like Sansa, and slender as a reed. "You already know Sharna."

"Oh." Arya twiddles her thumbs, feeling exposed in the flimsy hospital gown they've shoved at her. She wonders where her old clothes went. Her mother's, not the ones she got on the train. "It's good to meet you," she says uncertainly.

Sharna doesn't even lift her head, entirely focused on a stubborn leg hair that is refusing to pull. "It's nice to meet you too, miss."

Arya clears her throat, uncomfortable with the methodical way they poke and prod at her. "So how long-"

"Shh," Sharna interrupts, not unkindly. "Don't talk now." She snaps her fingers, and Arya jumps a little when Jeyne ducks down to her level with a nail file, fastidiously scraping away the bits of dirt and grime underneath her fingertips while Willow runs a brush through Arya's hair.

"You see, dear," Sharna explains patiently, "we need to _focus_."

Arya gives up after that, choosing to stare at the plain white walls while they pluck away at every bit of her, shaping her in a way that they find to be, quote-unquote, _Capitol appealing._ It's not just a haircut, either. They spray tan her until she's "sun-kissed", clip her fingers and her toes, pluck her eyebrows, curl her eyelashes until they stand as tall as Jeyne's. "It's very fashionable," the woman tells her happily, just before they start cutting off her hair. They work with astonishing speed, their scissors snipping rapidly around her ears.

They're more like little animals than humans, with their big eyes and colorful hair. They're also maybe the first Capitol citizens Arya hasn't been repulsed by, if only because they stop occasionally to ask if she's all right.

Except, once, Willow tries to pull the token from her neck, chattering about how it doesn't fit their predetermined _vision._ "No!" Arya yelps. The girl gives her a frightened look. "I mean, please. No. It's my brother's," she explains. "I don't want you to take it."

Willow sighs. "Are you sure?" Arya nods. "Well, all right then."

The process goes faster after that. Half an hour later, she's ordered to undress.

Arya crosses her arms over her chest, self-conscious as they strip her clothes away, leaving her barefoot on the ground. But then Sharna leads her over to a tub behind a curtain, and she sinks into the water, dyed a light pink color with gold petals floating overtop.

Jeyne pulls her hair back from her shoulders and squeezes something foamy into the water. It makes the water go all bubbly. Arya dips her fingertips into it, rubs it into her skin, plays with it like she's a child. She doesn't even notice her prep team disappearing quietly behind her, hypnotized by this single, small luxury she's been given.

Arya doesn't think she's ever had a bubble bath. She's never even _dreamed_ of one.

There's a mirror hanging across from her on the other side of the bathroom. Arya peers into it as she rubs her soapy hands slowly up and down her arms, scrubbing away the last of the now nonexistent dirt. She can't stop staring at her reflection, at her _hair,_ most of all. Jeyne had cut it just above her ribs; before, it had fallen nearly to her waist. Arya misses the weight of it, the way it used to sway around her shoulders. She plays with the ends of a few strands, examining the rest of it.

The skin around her forehead is slightly red from Jeyne's merciless waxing. They've done something to her long face to make it rounder, too. Her skin, somewhat pale before, is now an unnatural, golden bronze. Every mark, bruise, and blemish has been completely wiped away, airbrushed to near perfection - along with her whole self. It's like everything's been narrowed, or pinched, or stretched to fit the Capitol ideal. And she..she looks like Aunt Lyanna did. Refined. Pretty. Not like herself, though. Only her eyes are the same, harsh and grey like Ned's.

 _Horseface,_ Sansa used to call her. _Underfoot._

Arya wonders if her sister would recognize her now, tanned, blushed, soaking in a rosewater bath that was drawn personally for her. What would Catelyn think of her? What about her brothers?

Jon?

"Is a girl unsatisfied?" A low, quiet voice says from behind her. Arya spins in the tub, her thoughts of modesty momentarily suspended. She expects to see someone else with blue skin, tattoos up and down their arms, jewels set into their cupid's bow. Instead, Arya comes face-to-face with the most normal-looking man she's seen since arriving at the train station.

"Who are you?" She questions, her heart beating in her chest.

He's tall, angular, with lanky hair parted straight down the middle. Half of his head has been dyed a shocking red, the other, a milky white. Besides that, he doesn't seem to be cosmetically altered in any other way. His eyes stay fixed firmly above her shoulders as he steps even closer. "A man is Jaqen H'ghaar," He says, holding out a small white hand. "A man has the honor to be your stylist.'

She swallows. "I'm Arya," she says, taking his hand in hers. He has a firm grip, but not intimidatingly so. "Your accent, it's so strange - what part of Panem are you from?"

The corner of Jaqen's lip quirks up the slightest bit. "A girl has many questions," he says, walking across the room to draw a bathrobe from the counter. "Not all of them will be answered today." He places the bathrobe in her grasp, turning swiftly on his heel. "Dress," he calls to her, planting his feet firmly on the ground. "A man will not look; you have my confidence in that."

Arya grips the edge of the tub. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"I have never lied to a tribute," Jaqen responds, "especially not small, lonesome girls filled by fear."

"I'm not afraid!"

"Then _dress,_ brave girl," he tells her wryly, "and prove a man is wrong."

Arya doubts she's ever moved faster in her life. As soon as she's wrapped securely in the robe she sits in front of Jaqen, perched on the edge of the tub as he examines her face and newly cropped hair, one finger tapping lightly at his chin. He observes her for a minute before sighing. "The prep team did an excellent job," Jaqen comments. "A girl is lovely, and yet she is not happy with her reflection. No matter," he dismisses. "I have a question for you. What do you miss most from your home?"

She has a feeling this has something to do with the opening ceremony outfits. Arya knows what's supposed to happen then - she and Gendry get sent out covered in coal dust, wearing mining suits or something equally embarrassing. It wasn't any better in Robb's year. She doesn't know why things would change now. "My home?" Arya croaks.

Jaqen simply purses his lips.

Her lips part slightly as she shivers.

"There's a fence in Twelve," Arya starts. "It runs behind the coal mines, and the slag heap, past the Hob. It's everywhere, around the whole District. It's supposed to be electrified, but," Arya shrugs. "I don't think they've ever actually turned it on. There's a forest behind it. It's big. Green. My mother, she..." Arya hesitates, remembering who she's talking to. Jaqen might not look like the others, but he still belongs to the Capitol.

He's still the enemy.

"Sometimes I'd cross over it," she admits, making sure to measure out her words. "My mother owns an apothecary, and she can't get everything she needs from what the Capitol provides. So I would go into the woods when the peacekeepers weren't around. I'd spend hours there. I would get what she needed, and then I would just... stay there _._ For as long as I wanted. There were those trees and this big blue lake. It was quiet there. Serene.”

Arya smiles. "Once I took my brother Robb there. We stayed there for a whole afternoon. He said it was the most beautiful place in Twelve."

They'd seen a real wolf that day, standing on one of the nearby riverbanks. It wasn't the same as the underfed coyotes that skulked around the Hob, or the stray mutts that always tailed them back home. It'd been large and grey and fierce-looking, resembling one of her brother's wooden carvings.

 _Careful,_ Robb warned when Arya tried to get closer to it, _wolves bite._

"Your brother," Jaqen observes after a moment. "He was reaped a few years ago, no? Long before I came to the Capitol. They called him the Young Wolf. Is that is his token you are wearing?"

"How did you..." She blinks. "Yeah. Yes. That...that's what the Capitol called him." Arya gives a strangled laugh, touching the wolf's head. "One of your stylists wanted to take it away. She thought it was _unpolished_."

"On the contrary." Jaqen reaches out, scratching his fingernail down the face of the wolf. Her skin tingles unpleasantly. "It's practically perfect," he says thoughtfully. "The woods. The wolves. The girl." He stands, looking down at her. "Yes," he decides. "I can certainly work with this."

-

Arya’s convinced this is a bad idea as soon as the elevator doors open, a peacekeeper prodding her lightly through over the threshold and into the wide, dim space that is essentially a giant stable. The lowest level of the Remake Center is already crowded with mentors and tributes. Arya's breath catches in her throat as she peers around, holding the train of her skirt off her feet so she doesn't trip or fall.

She sees Tormund Giantsbane across the room, talking to a young girl and a boy who looks a bit like Jon. She sees Asha Greyjoy, Qhorin the Halfhand, Oberyn Martell, so many Victors Arya's grown up watching on television and Tours. She sees everyone else, too, the boy and girl from each District, her competition. All of them stand on designated areas marked with white chalk and their District numbers. Only the stylists seem to have free movement of the stable, roaming back and forth to examine their colleagues' work. The air seems to hum with tension. Every pair of eyes flies towards them, the new arrivals on the block.

"There is your mentor," Jaqen says into Arya's ear. He lifts one thin arm, pointing at the very end of the chariot line. She follows his line of sight and spots Sandor leaning silently against the far wall.

Of course District Twelve is last.

"Your District partner should already be there. Go to them." Jaqen presses his hand to her shoulder, lightly. "You told me you were brave. Do not make yourself a liar."

“I won’t,” Arya answers stubbornly. "I'm not."

Jaqen smiles again. Then he's gone, turning around and striding towards District Three's chariot, where a woman with bright pink hair fusses over a pair of frightened-looking teenagers.

Arya sucks in a breath, heading over to Twelve's chariot as discreetly as she can. Gendry is waiting when she gets there, standing stiffly by the chariot while Clegane toys with a silver flask.

She's relieved to see that he's been remade as well; his hair's slicked back, his face scrubbed clean, his arms free of anything that even begins to resemble hair. The loose white linen tunic he wears, identical to the embroidered one Arya has on, is decorated with swirls of leaves and fern. Where his chest is left naked, at the center of his heart, a grey wolf is painted on his skin - matching perfectly with the one that coils up Arya's back and arm to nap in the hollow of her throat. In the places the tunic doesn't cover, a silvery, gauzy fabric has been draped all over his body, corded with tiny acorns and vines. For Arya, it's been fashioned to a skirt.

 _They will remember your brother,_ Jaqen had said as he wove silver links into her hair, ran a paintbrush up and down the column of her neck. _Faced with you and Gendry, they cannot possibly forget._

On anyone else, it would seem positively bizarre. Arya isn't even sure that _she_ doesn't look slightly freakish. Gendry looks good this way, though. Strong, like a Victor would, and handsome as a Career. Arya bites her lip as she sidles up to him, absentmindedly stroking the flank of their chariot horse. She opens her mouth to say hello, but then Sandor shuffles in front of her with that trademark scowl on his face.

"A bit fucking obvious, isn't it?"

They both jump at the same time. Arya's skirt swishes around her ankles.

"Sorry?" Gendry asks.

His voice is just a bit too loud. Clegane gives them both a nasty smirk, which makes his face sag even more. "The bloody wolves," he says, gesturing vaguely at their hair and makeup. "They aren't exactly subtle." He raises an eyebrow. "This was Jaqen's idea, I suppose?"

"That's what Ravella said," Gendry admits. They both turn to Arya, giving her a pointed look.

Which she pointedly ignores. "I didn't know," she swears. "I thought they'd put us in mining suits or something. I wouldn't have argued if they did. But then Jaqen started asking about Twelve, and he saw my necklace. Maybe he got-"

"Inspired?"

Arya glares at Sandor, put on the defensive.

"Yeah," she grits her teeth. "If that's how you want to think about it."

"It's a good plan," he sighs, "presenting you as your brother's legacy. The Capitol won't like it, but if enough of the people do... fuck all, though," Sandor finishes. "I need a drink."

“But you’ve already got one.”

Clegane snarls wordlessly and stalks over to a nearby Capitol attendant, whose eyes widen when he sees their mentor approaching. Arya watches them for a moment - listening as the two debate the merits of in-chariot alcohol - and she turns back to Gendry, pressing her lips together. The horse whickers softly in her ear, nudging at her palm with its muzzle. She grins a little while petting it gently. Its coat is soft and glossy to the touch. It's been well cared for.

"Sorry," Arya murmurs, "I haven't got any treats." She sees Gendry watching her in the corner of her eye. "You can touch it too, you know," she says when he keeps staring. "They probably won't bite."

"That's not what I was thinking about," he frowns. Still, he moves to the horse's other side, lifting his hand a bit gingerly. "I've never seen one before," he confesses.

Arya raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?" She asks. "Not even through the fence?" Granted, District Twelve mostly ran on manual labor, but it was always easy to spot the plow horses that grazed in the fields on the other side. "They must have hundreds of them in Eleven."

"Sure, I guess," Gendry shrugs. "But it's not like I've ever been there." He scans her suspiciously. The horse bumps its head against his shoulder. "Why, have you?"

Arya bites the edge of her lip, fighting a grin. "Nope," she says, straight-faced. Suddenly she remembers the time she'd snuck under a loose patch of barbed wire into the golden fields, Bran and Rickon at her heels. "And I've never been into the woods."

"Bet you didn't tell your stylist about it either."

"Believe me," Arya replies, “if they'd made us go out there stark naked, covered in coal dust, I would have gone along with it. Granted, it would have been humiliating - but less conspicuous."

"Conspicuous?" He asks. 

She exhales softly. "I - it's kind of difficult to explain." 

"I don't get it," Gendry answers, sounding frustrated. "I mean. No. I do. I watched your brother's Games, I saw what happened to him and Jeyne, but-"

He's cut off by the sound of the Capitol anthem booming through the Remake Center. The stable doors suddenly open, turning towards a bright white light; Arya raises a forearm, shielding herself from the brilliance. "We need to get ready," she realizes. The first chariot horse from One starts to trot itself across the stable, so well trained that it doesn't even need a guiding hand. "They're sending the tributes out."

"Yeah, no shit," Gendry says gruffly. "C'mon." He gets into the chariot first, clambering up before extending a hand to Arya. She ignores it, her heart thudding wildly in her chest as she climbs into the nearby seat. Sandor is suddenly at their side again, saying something about making eye contact with the crowd, but they're already pulling away. They're already gone.

All of them line up at the opening and Arya sees the tributes from District One - a thin, handsome boy with golden hair, wearing a sick-looking smile, a girl so tall and brutish Arya mistakes her for another male tribute. Their stylist has cloaked them in suits of gold and sapphire. Their chariot rolls out, the crowd screaming at their appearance. Arya reels a little, stunned by what must be hundreds - no, thousands - of people in the crowd.

She reaches down, taking Gendry's hand tentatively in hers; squeezing, then releasing just as quickly.

One after another the tributes are presented in pairs, producing _oohs_ and _ahs_ from the onlookers with varying degrees of admiration. Theon Greyjoy impresses. The Tyrell siblings stun. The little girl from Eleven is as frightened as a mouse. Her District partner is too wide for the chariot.

There are four Districts left. Then three. Two. One. This time, Gendry's the one to hold her hand, clutching it as consternation rolls off of him in waves. Arya hasn’t quite figured him out yet - doesn’t know if she’ll ever get the chance to - but right now she knows she wants to stick with him for as long as time allows.

 _Just relax,_ she wants to say.

District Twelve's chariot pulls out of the station.

Arya fixes her gaze on the giant screen that's projected in front of her; she lifts her head, sending a gasp rippling through the crowd as the wolf's head is exposed. She shifts, and the transparent fabric catches the light luminously. A million eyes are on her, open and unblinking.

Then they start to shriek, cheer, _screech_ would be the best way to describe it. The sound is deafening. Arya fights the urge to wince and cover her ears, forcing herself to let her hands hang limply at her sides as they throw flowers down at the chariot. Most of the gifts land just out of Arya's reach. A choice item of clothing hits Gendry in the head; a wild laugh escapes her lips as he tosses it aside in irritation.

The chariot pulls forward. Roses rain down around them, daisies and sunflowers too. Arya reaches out to snag a rose as blue as summer skies. Someone from the lower stands waves at her, calls her brother's name, then hers. Tosses Arya a smile that feels more precious than a diamond. She'd told Gendry that she didn't want to wear Robb's symbol, didn't want to be reminded of what he'd gone through in the arena, but somehow-

Somehow all of that seems to fade, as Arya soaks in the overwhelming adoration of the Capitol, the knowledge that she's going to die slipping from her mind.

And then the chariot pulls to a stop just before the City Circle, below the President's balcony./p>

President Aerys steps out onto the balcony, shadowed by his heirs. Rhaegar, Daenerys, and Viserys are almost inseparable from one another - all three of them share their father's silver hair and violet eyes - but when Rhaegar looks down at them with his eyes narrowed, Arya can't help but feel like she's seen that same expression elsewhere.

"To begin going forward," President Aerys intones, "We must first look to our past."

His voice is sonorous and deep. It makes the crowd fall silent; Arya doesn't quite get what he's saying until the music swells, the whole City Circle inexplicably starts to dim, and the projection lights up with an image of an ominous rainforest arena. She furrows her brow, perplexed. Until she isn't anymore.

It's the first Hunger Games. 

The screen flashes once, twice, showing Bael running in the jungle with Lann the Clever in pursuit. Arya knows what happens next, has seen this video at least a hundred times, but she still cringes as Lann raises his knife to peer into the foliage only for Bael to slip in from behind. "We honor you as tributes, as we did the ones before you." Another scene replaces it, and this one is from Oberyn's year. Sixteen then, well into his forties now, Oberyn supports Ellaria Sand through an endless desert. He bows his head, keeping her upright as they stumble over brush and dune.

"We honor your Districts, and we acknowledge what you have sacrificed. All that you have given in the name of this timeless tradition."

Tormund Giantsbane fording through the ice drifts. Jon Connington scaling the cityscape. Orys running through a cornfield.

Aeron Greyjoy facing the kelp sea, Varymr Sixskins, the mountain peaks.

Then there's Sandor, the year of the great alliance. "There have been challenging times for our country." All the tributes had banded together, formed a pact not to kill one another. It hadn't done any good. "Moments that may almost seem unspeakable." It'd only enraged the public and made the Gamemakers especially brutal with their tactics. The floods. The wildfires. The muttations. “Some have perpetrated acts of undeniable rebellion." Sandor had been the first to break the alliance, strangling one of his competitors in the dead of night. That Games became a bloodbath, and the Districts had lost so, so much that year. "Acts which put our nation in great peril."

"They had his sister killed because of what they did in there," she whispers to Gendry. "Even though he was the one to stop it. She was only ten, I think."

"Really?" Gendry mutters, the light of the screen shining on his face.

"Yeah," Arya says, voice rough. She hadn't thought about it before. "Can you believe it?"

The nausea is rising in her stomach, the moment she dreads is coming. Arya shuts her eyes until stars explode behind her vision. Forces them back open with a breath. Robb's year is next, and although they don't show him dying, they show something almost as horrible. Her brother holds Jeyne Westerling in his arms, and she's long dead. He bends down, pressing his lips to her bloody forehead. The forest stirs lightly in the background; Arya bites back a desperate cry, holding onto Gendry hard enough to bruise his fingers. She refuses to let go until the cameras cut away.

“But through it all," Aerys recollects, "Panem has emerged victorious, triumphant, and stronger than ever before. You, as tributes, are the upholders of this victory."

The last thing they see is Asha Greyjoy, last year's Victor, plunging a trident into the chest of her District partner. She raises her head in exultation as the cameras pan down towards her, the cut on her neck bleeding profusely. Her breath comes out in short huffs, her eyes squint towards the sun, and then the projection wanes to black as the helicarriers descend towards her.

"Welcome to our Capitol." The president lifts a hand, beaming down towards the tributes. The crowd begins to cheer. His children whisper back and forth with each other, and they look like they're keeping secrets.

"Welcome to the Hunger Games."

-

It's not until later - when the chariots have made two more loops around the Circle and returned to the Remake Center - that Arya lets herself relax. The screaming, the chanting, it still hasn't faded from her mind...but at least it's over.

They're back in the first room of the Remake Center, that clean sparse area with the open middle, except this time the tributes are all together, milling anxiously around. Sandor is off to one side with their prep team, Slynt boasting how good their District was out there to a few of the other Escorts, while Jaqen and Gendry's stylist, Ravella, speak quietly in the corner. Arya's not in the mood to talk to any of them, so she decides to sit against a wall with her knees pressed against her chest.

Somehow Gendry ends up next to her. Arya looks at him, annoyed, then figures that out of all of them his company is the most desirable. She lets him stay, regarding their surroundings curiously.

"Hey," she says after a second. "I wonder where the horses are."

Gendry gives her a strange look. "Sorry?"

"The _horses_ ," Arya clarifies. "The ones pulling the chariots. Where do you think they went? It's not like they can take an elevator back down, but they have to go somewhere, right?"

"Oh." He shrugs. "I bet they're fine. You know, there are people to take care of them, and they've probably got, like, a hundred stables here."

"A hundred stables." She laughs, a tad lightheaded. He probably doesn’t realize how crazy that sounds - a hundred stables. A hundred of anything. But that’s the thing with this place: The wealth, the excess.

And the fact that they probably treat their animals better than any tribute.

"Miss Stark," A voice booms from beside her.

Arya jumps, too deep inside her head. She looks up and sees a plump, balding man standing over her. _Meryn Trant,_ she remembers quickly. He's a Victor from District Two, their District mentor for this year's Games. It's no surprise, then, that Ramsay Bolton is with him. His blue eyes are no less unsettling in person. He's looking at Arya in a way that makes her skin crawl.

"Sir," she says coolly, not bothering to stand. "Did you need something?"

"I'd like to propose an alliance," Trant says straightforwardly. "Between my two tributes and you. And the boy, of course," he says dismissively, "but mainly, Miss Stark...you." The female tribute from Two - Dacey - ducks her head as if embarrassed. Ramsay's hands tighten in fists. Gendry stiffens next to her.

But Arya just clears her throat, pausing. _An alliance?_ She knows what they are, obviously, and had expected to make them at some point in time, but-

"I'm sorry," she says hesitantly. "I don't understand."

"The crowd loved you out there," Trant explains, "you saw how they reacted when your chariot went out. But the two of you aren't fighters, are you?"

"We do our best," Gendry says dryly.

"Of course," Trant acquiesces. "Although considering-"

"Considering what?" Sandor says, sidling up to them. "Stand," he snaps at Arya. "Come on, both of you, get up."

Arya and Gendry share a look before getting to their feet. "Clegane." Trant is less than impressed.

"Meryn."

"Always a pleasure to see you." Trant offers a hand in greeting, pulling away when Sandor ignores the gesture. He sniffs, his mustache twitching. "I was only saying that coming from Twelve, your tributes don't have the kind of experience that mine do. Not in combat, at least. An alliance would do them good in the arena, especially with Career tributes as qualified as these."

"So what are you saying?" Sandor answers, unaffected. "That our alliance should be with you?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Trant smiles. "If you're willing to have us, that is. Consider the possibilities. Ramsay and Dacey's talents, combined with your tributes' popularity, and the girl's name and breeding-"

"My name is _Arya,_ not _girl_ ," She interrupts. Arya doesn't even want to think about what he meant by her _breeding;_ it's just that something is unsettling about the boy and girl from Two, Ramsay especially. "Isn't it a little early to be asking all this, anyway?" Her eyes dart over to Sandor. "We - we haven't even trained yet. It's only the first day." Then, to Gendry: "Right?"

Trant's expression turns patronizing. He puts his hands on his hips. "Well, that's not for you to decide."

"You asked _me_ ," Arya snaps, "so it kind of is. And my answer's no. For now."

She crosses her arms, impatient. Ramsay says something under his breath.

Then Sandor nods. "You heard her, Trant. No alliance. _For now,_ " he emphasizes. "It's too early to even think about it."

Trant gives him a strange look that Arya can't read, a smile that has a lot behind it. "Fine," he says. He knocks Sandor on the shoulder, tips his head to Gendry. His gaze lingers slightly on Arya. "But I'll be asking again."

"Gods," Gendry mutters as Trant and his tributes walk away. "What was _that_ about?"

"Not sure," Sandor replies. He seems a little unsettled, an emotion Arya’s never seen from him. "I'll tell you if it comes back up. Not now, though." He looks at his tributes, almost sympathetic. "Think the two of you have earned some rest?"

-

They take another car to the Training Center, a building so tall that the top of it disappears into the clouds. By now the sun is setting, the sky turning shades of pink and orange. A squad of peacekeepers guides them through a revolving door, directing them towards a steel elevator that goes up and up and up, flying past levels of glass and gold.

Their penthouse suite - that's what Slynt calls it, anyways - is ten times more grandiose than the train car, and probably the most exuberant place she's ever been. The living room alone is twice as big as Arya's house. There's Avoxes at every door. Peacekeepers, too.

"They're going to protect you," Slynt explains patiently, and irony is everywhere.

Sandor shows Gendry to his room, leaving Arya to navigate the maze of hallways until she finds a door that leads to a second bedroom. There's a fireplace in the corner, a bed, a soft throw pillow meant for reclining, a row of bookshelves filled with novels, some of which she's read before. If it wasn't for the row of ten-foot windows, flickering with images of forests and mountain landscapes, and the screening system, flaring to life in the corner, then it wouldn't be so different from Arya's room in Twelve.

Except for the fact that this place looks like it cost a million dollars, and the people here could probably eat the worth of her living room for breakfast.

Breakfast. Right. Food. It's been a while since she's eaten, but nobody's called for dinner and again, she isn't hungry. So Arya finds her way to the shower with too many buttons and settings to make sense of, rinsing the paint and makeup from her face, choosing to leave her ceremonial outfit on the bathroom floor. She turns the water up to boiling and stands under it until her skin turns plum red.

When she gets out, there's a soft pair of pajamas on the bed for her, made out of light grey fabric. They're a bit large for Arya, the cuffs falling well past her wrists. The pants are a bit too long.

Suddenly it hits her that these are the last clothes she'll ever wear, the last place she'll live in before the Games begin. Gendry, Slynt, Sandor - they're going to be some of the last people she ever interacts with, save for the ones that are raring to kill her a few levels below them. Arya's vision is getting fuzzy, her breaths all shallow and cold.

She stalks out of her bedroom, down another hall, her feet making slapping sounds on the carpet.

Arya doesn't think she's going to cry, not exactly, but her chest is tight in a way that can't be good for her, her hands trembling at her sides. She - she needs to get some air, she needs-

She needs to go home. Right now. To Twelve and her family, and the _real_ woods behind the barbed wire fence, not the fake ones on the windows.

But before Arya can formulate exactly how to do that, she runs into Gendry in the corridor. He's wrapped in a towel from the waist down, his hair still drying with some residual bubbles left unscrubbed. It's unfortunate that she smacks right into him because he might as well be naked with nothing but the towel on. Arya takes a step back and covers her eyes instinctively, embarrassed by the startled yelp she makes.

"Shit," Gendry says, a flush running up and down his neck, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she insists.

"No, seriously," he leans closer. "You look a little sick."

She's fine. She is. "I just," Arya tells him, "I need, I gotta go outside. I can’t stay here, I'm sorry, I need to go."

Gendry looks at her for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing. Not with genuine concern. More like abject confusion. "They won't let us," he says reluctantly. "I asked already. It's in the rules or something. The tributes can't go outside. Not up here. So that's - you can't do that." He nods. "Sorry."

Arya feels wild, kind of out of her mind. Of course. Of course, they wouldn't let the tributes go outside, because they'd run away, or kill themselves, or something. They're in the _penthouse,_ for gods' sake. The highest level of the Center.

"Right." She touches her forehead lightly, huffing. "This is so weird, Gendry. So fucking weird."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets. Or he tries to, at least, but since he's not wearing pants he settles for wringing them in front of his body. "Yeah, uh, it's-"

"It's so weird that this is our home now," she continues, "this is where they want us to live. And we're going to _die_ here too, you know, and out of all the places in Panem to do it...it's here. But I don't want to." She bites her lip, trying to get herself to stop talking, but the words are flowing out and Gendry is a convenient recipient, staring wide-eyed at her while she rambles on. "I was always scared of dying. I guess it was something that scared me - like, the whole thing just seemed so terrible. Even before Dad and Robb, but, um, when Dad died it got really bad, and I'd just lie awake in bed thinking about him-"

Her eyelids flutter shut. She remembers the blood on Ned's body; it'd taken so long for him to die.

"-and then, uh, after - after Robb was gone, it was like there was this massive darkness just following us around, our whole family around. And I knew and Sansa knew and Bran knew but Rickon didn't know; Rickon was six years old, how could he possibly understand? So he'd keep asking for his daddy and he'd wonder when Robb was coming home and what was Mom supposed to tell him? That his big brother was dead, that-" She clears her throat, drags the back of her hand across her cheeks. "What was she supposed to say? But he's not six anymore. He's going to _know_ what happened to me. If it happens. _When_ it happens. And I don't want to be that for him. That darkness. That empty space."

She hears Gendry take a step forward. "Arya-"

"I'm just gonna tell you now. I think it's for the best." Arya looks up at him, her eyes straining. "I'm going to do anything I can to get back to District Twelve. I know it's selfish, and it's wrong, but I'd do _anything_ if it means I get to go back home. I won't put my family through that again." Arya gulps another breath in, harshly, "I won't."

He gets even closer to her, reaching out and wrapping his hand around her wrist, trying to stop her from shaking. "Yeah? What would you do?" The next thing he says is almost joking. Maybe he's trying to reassure her. "Try killing me?"

Arya licks her lips. "If that's what I'm capable of."

Gendry's whole face seems to freeze up, the muscles of his shoulders hunching slightly. 

His features contort with disappointment. Hurt, too, swiftly replaced by a look of cool understanding. "Oh."

Arya frowns. "Gendry-“

”It’s fine. Really, it is. I guess," Gendry shrugs, "that's what I'll be doing too, once we're in the arena. I want to go home, too, so - District alliance or not. Whatever I'm capable of."

Gendry releases Arya's wrist, looks at her hard like he's trying to drive the point home. Then he lets go of her, turns on his heel, and walks back into his room. The door slams shut behind him. Arya pulls her hand away slowly, curling it against her chest. There's guilt welling up in her...but a hint of curiosity, too.

She can't help but wonder. _What are_ _you capable of, Gendry Waters?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment/review if you liked this chapter; it would mean the world to me!
> 
> tumblr: [endlessnorth :)](https://endlessnorth.tumblr.com/)


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